


The Seven Days of Credence

by TheSilverQueen



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Credence Barebone Gets a Hug, Credence Barebone Lives, Fluff, Happy Ending, Living in Newt Scamander's Suitcase, M/M, Newt Scamander Saves Credence Barebone, Original Percival Graves Cameo, Post-Movie 1: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-29
Updated: 2017-10-29
Packaged: 2019-01-26 09:24:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12554336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSilverQueen/pseuds/TheSilverQueen
Summary: The Almighty says, in a voice so loud that every inch of Credence startles, “Credence, do you remember who you are?”Somewhere, in the depths of the Credence-that-is, the Credence-that-was remembers a mouth and a tongue and speech. Credence croaks, “No.”“It’s all right,” the Almighty says kindly, and Credence is undeserving of such kindness but he cannot help but lean towards it, yearning and worshipping and so, so, so starved for Light. “It’s all right, Credence. Let me remind me who you are.”Newt finds Credence wounded and broken in the darkness of the sewers, and Credence is so far gone that when he looks at Newt, all he can see if God Almighty, coming to cast him down into Hell for his sins. Newt, of course, has other ideas.





	The Seven Days of Credence

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Hachiseiko](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hachiseiko/gifts).



> This is a (belated) birthday gift for my lovely friend Hachiseiko, who wanted some Credence fluff. I tried and I think mostly delivered. Love you, darling!!!
> 
> Also I have not opened a Bible since elementary school, as I don't think swearing on Bibles during mock trial for uni count, so I apologize if any (or all) of these verses are gravely misinterpreted. Most of them are taken from the seven days of creation from the King James Bible.
> 
> Finally, some of the creatures were drawn from this[Anthology of Mythical Creatures](http://thesilverqueenlady.tumblr.com/post/163576666791/elletromil-americaninfographic-mythical) post on tumblr because I wanted to use new creatures.

**And God said, Let there be light, and there was light.**

Normally, when Credence lets the monster inside rise up and take control, he feels no pain. There is only the weightlessness and the rage and the blurriness, like sinking deep into the water and watching the bubbles of one’s last breath of air float free while the body continues its downwards journey. 

Right now, though, something has changed. Something is different.

When the men and women point their wands at him, the streaks of light _burn_ and Credence knows he shouldn’t scream, because screaming is how plates break and curtains twitch and windows explode, but he can’t help it.

Tina and Newt are saying something, he can see their mouths moving, but in the end, it doesn’t matter. The angels have come to pass judgment on him for his sins and they find him wanting, and Credence can’t blame them for driving him from the gates of Heaven by any means necessary. Who can say that their magic is not just another name for the power of angels, granted by God to banish evil?

And Credence has endured pain before, he has been slapped and beaten and whipped and burned and drowned, but nothing, _nothing_ , compares to this, to a thousand steel-tipped feathers slicing lines through the monster that is Credence.

So he screams, because he cannot stop and he cannot hide and he cannot flee, and eventually, even darkness must give way to light.

Dimly, Credence registers the explosion, like a lamp bursting into pieces and scattering glass and light everywhere. Dimly, he registers the end of the lights and the pain. Dimly, he registers the sigh that leaves him as the monster dissolves, piece by piece, floating free towards the vast open empty sky.

The smallest part of the Credence-that-was thinks, _Is this how the world felt, when the Father first brought light? Alone and small and drifting in the nothingness?_

The rest of Credence, well.

The rest of Credence simply floats.

**And God called the light Day, and the darkness he called Night. And the evening and the morning were the first day.**

Credence isn’t stupid, no matter what Ma says. He knows that the monster inside of him is like the devil, for it feeds off of darkness and hatred and jealously and wickedness, and so, when the Credence-that-is finally begins to collect more and more tiny pieces and tendrils of the Credence-that-was, he is not at all surprised to find that he has come to roost in the darkness of the sewers, where all he can smell is the stench of death and rot. This is where he belongs, he thinks, because all of the Light in the world could not drive out the darkness and wickedness that lives in the very marrow of his bones and the fabric of what little soul he still has.

He does not know how long he lives there, spinning in eternal darkness, flickering between the monster and the boy, the angel and the devil, before his Creator deigns to descend and stand before him, outlined in the light of Heaven.

“Credence.”

And the voice might have been soft to the Credence-that-was, but to the Credence-that-is, the voice is like the voice of Almighty, bringing Moses and Noah to their knees, and Credence trembles and falls like a cloud of dust to the ground and waits to be stripped of his wings and cast down to Hell, where he belongs.

Except.

Except the Almighty does not do that. The Almighty takes one step closer, and then another, and then another, and the Voice grows ever softer. “Oh, Credence,” He says. “Oh, look at you, my dear boy.”

Credence burbles. He cannot form any response, for he is mute, like Zechariah in the presence of the great Gabriel. 

“Credence,” the Almighty whispers. “Credence, can you hear me?”

Parts of Credence shift and swirl, but the Credence-that-is is always shifting and swirling, and so Credence imagines that he does not look any different than when the Father first found him. He waits, in silence, for the judgment, for the pain, for the wrath of the Almighty to take its toll upon him, and he waits an age and a day except, instead, there is a tiny click, like an earth shake, and instead, the Voice starts humming.

It is beautiful. If Credence was less wicked, he might not have thought that the song of the Almighty is more beautiful than the song that first brought Creation to the world, but Credence is the heart of all evil, so he thinks it and is glad to hear such beauty before the end.

Another age passes, and the Almighty rises, like a mighty bird spreading his wings before flight. “I will return, Credence,” the Voice intones. “Please don’t – don’t feel alarmed. No one knows you are here. And I will come back, I promise.”

And really, how can Credence resist the command of the Almighty?

* * *

There is no way to measure the passage of time, here in the darkness and nothingness, so Credence takes upon himself one more blasphemy – but really, what is one more upon the bonfire that is his blackened soul? – and begins to use the presence of the Almighty to measure time. The Almighty brings Light and Day and all that is good with the world, and when the Almighty leaves, Night and Darkness fall, and Credence rests in the night and waits for the day when the Almighty will finally tire of singing the song of Creation to him and cast him down.

He’s already had seven days. He thinks the Almighty has been more than generous.

But, perhaps, he reasons, the Almighty does not have many who can hear the song of Creation and not flee before its glory. The song is beautiful and powerful and shakes the foundations of the Credence-that-is, and he imagines it would have reduced anyone else to a trembling wreck.

Fortunately, Credence is already a trembling wreck. 

So Credence rests and listens and waits, and the Almighty comes and sings and leaves and then comes and sings and leaves some more, and Credence is content.

**And God said, Let there be a firmament in the midst of the waters, and let it divide the waters from the waters.**

And then comes the day the Almighty finishes the song of Creation and decides, quite strangely, to talk instead. 

He says, “Credence, do you remember me?”

Credence just hums. How could he ever forget his Creator, the one who brings him Light and Day and the song of Creation?

He says, “Credence, my name is Newt Scamander.”

Credence hears the name, but it is like hearing the story of the Great Flood. It simply washes over and through him, like a cool breeze in the morning, for it is a thing that exists and nothing Credence can do will change it. It simply is.

He says, “Credence, do you remember who you are?”

Who, the Almighty says, like he is not a demon that somehow escaped from the depths of hell and took root in a human babe. Like he is not wickedness that the Almighty should be obliterating in a single moment. Like he is not the harbinger of death and all that is wrong with the humans of the world.

Of course, Credence reflects, the Almighty is as all-forgiving as he is all-powerful. Perhaps this is the reason that the Morningstar caused so much pain before he Fell: the Almighty simply cared too much.

The Almighty says, in a voice so loud that every inch of Credence startles, “Credence, _do you remember who you are_?”

_I don’t want to,_ the Credence-that-is thinks. That way lies pain and death and destruction and wickedness and fire and blood. He does not wish to go back down that path, not ever. He would rather lie here, forever alone and spinning in the void, than remember the fire and brimstone that had brought him here.

But this is the Almighty, the Father, the Creator. He cannot disobey the Creator.

Somewhere, in the depths of the Credence-that-is, the Credence-that-was remembers a mouth and a tongue and speech. Credence croaks, “No.”

The Almighty, for the first time, reaches out and touches him, straining, for Credence is mere dust and shadow now, and Credence tries his hardest to reach back but he cannot quite make it. He knows that a single touch from the Almighty would likely destroy him, for that is what happens when pure goodness touches pure wickedness, but he thinks it might be a fitting end. He’d like to know what goodness feels like, for once.

“It’s all right,” the Almighty says kindly, and Credence is undeserving of such kindness but he cannot help but lean towards it, yearning and worshipping and so, so, so starved for Light. “It’s all right, Credence. Let me remind me who you are.”

The Almighty speaks of a mother, fierce and cruel and determined. The Almighty speaks of a woman, soft and quiet and bound. The Almighty speaks of a girl, sweet and kind and small.

Credence thinks _Ma_ and _Chastity_ and _Modesty_.

Credence thinks _I am Credence Barebone_.

“Yes,” says the Almighty, triumphant. “You are Credence Barebone. Come to me, Credence, come to me.”

And Credence thinks, _is this what the world felt like, when the Father gave it a name_ , for he feels at once blessed and made whole and reborn, not like all of his sins have been wiped clean but rather that he is someone – something new entirely. Like stardust, reformed into a new star, but still remembering that star that came before it. Like the dawn of a new Creation, with Credence at its heart.

It is painful, to go from dust and thought and shadow to flesh and bone and blood, but it is worth it, to feel his Creator’s hands upon his shoulders, warm and calloused and steady.

“Mercy Lewis, you’re freezing,” the Almighty says, almost to himself, before he flicks a hand and pulls a bright blue blanket from thin air and wraps it snugly around Credence’s bare, shivering, human shoulders. “Although I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised, it’s amazing that you can rematerialize, and clothing might be out of your reach just yet.”

Credence looks at the reams and reams of soft blue cloth around him and thinks dazedly of blue waters, parting for the rising earth under God’s command.

“Now, come,” the Almighty urges. “You need food and water and sleep.”

What use has a sinner for sustenance and rest, Credence wonders. But the Almighty’s hands are strong, for all that they are light and careful not to bruise his newly human skin, and so Credence thinks instead of the Last Supper, of one last meal before judgment is passed, and he allows his Creator to urge him down the stars, where he breathes in moist air and listens to the faint gurgling of water and lays his head down upon the firm earth.

If this is to be his final day, he thinks, he will gladly take it.

**And God said, Let the earth bring forth grass, the herb yielding seed, and the fruit tree yielding fruit after his kind, whose seed is in itself, upon the earth: and it was so.**

When he awakens, Credence is in the Garden of Eden. It is simple: there are great open skies, tall and proud trees that dot the edges of the field, sweet-smelling tall grass, sparkling rivers that cheerfully bubble through, and the air is warm and dusty. It is such a contrast to the downcast, gray landscapes of his home that Credence, for a moment, wonders if this is what New York was like before it was New York, before humans made homes and fields, before animals and birds and fish took to the sea and sky and land. 

He abruptly revises that opinion when he hears a chittering at his feet and an animal with a duck bill and bright beady eyes and dark fur scuttles up and stares at him.

Credence may not be familiar with all of God’s creatures, but he’s fairly certain this one is not in the Bible.

The creature cocks its head and stares at him.

Credence stares back.

There’s the sound of a bang and then intense coughing, and while the creature takes off, Credence twists and sees a little shack. It’s homey and small, leaning gently against some trees, and it’s beautifully simple, like the garden, fitting into nature instead of forcing nature to change to suit it. 

A man tumbles out, faintly smoking, wearing a wrinkled white shirt and sensible brown pants and thick boots. Credence would say that he looks as normal as anything else in the Garden of Eden, but for the strange scarf the man has coiled about his throat. It is very, very blue, flashing iridescent in the sun, and if Credence didn’t know better, he’d say it was a scarf that was alive. He’s not sure if such a thing exists, but he has seen men and women vanish in seconds, so perhaps it is not entirely impossible.

The man catches sight of him and the sheer brilliance of his smile makes Credence want to press his face into the dirt in supplication. The Almighty should not _smile_ at the sight of a sinner who has spilled blood and broken faith and dabbled in dark magic.

“Ah, Credence,” the Almighty says, drawing closer, still beaming. “I’m so glad you’re awake!”

The voice is familiar. Very familiar. Credence risks a glance upwards and notes that the man looks almost exactly like Newt Scamander, the wizard who had tried to help.

For a moment, Credence almost lets him hope that it is Newt Scamander, that he has at least one person who actually wants to help and did not give up on him, that he has at least one living soul in the world who thinks he is worth saving. Just for a moment, he lets himself breathe through the painful clutch of hope in his chest.

Then he realizes that mortals, especially sinners, could hardly gaze upon the Father in his true form, so it makes sense that the Almighty has adopted a form with which Credence is familiar. And choosing Mr. Scamander makes sense, since he wouldn’t react kindly to Ma or Chastity or Modesty, Mr. Graves turned out to be as uncaring and manipulative as Ma, and Ms. Goldstein was more likely to try and feed him than bring him down to Hell where he belongs. Mr. Scamander is a safe choice, at once familiar and somewhat unknown. Like the Almighty himself.

“Mercy Lewis, don’t – don’t _bow_ ,” the Almighty scolds, kneeling in the dirt and startling Credence so much that he nearly loses his grip on the blanket. “It’s just me, Credence. I’m Newt Scamander, do you remember me?”

Credence presses his forehead to the dirt and holds back tears. He is grateful, he truly is, for this final taste of freedom and fresh air, but he knows where he belongs. “I – I am so sorry, Father, I failed you, I broke faith, I am – I am a monster, please – I know I am not, not worthy, but please,” he begs, “please give me some mercy.”

The Almighty is quiet for a long moment. 

“Credence,” He says, “who do you think I am?”

Credence is about to answer with the obvious answer when something terrible occurs to him. _This could all be a test,_ he thinks, and his heart starts racing. Who is to say that he is not already in Hell, and this is a test from the Devil?

He is so lost in his panic that it takes him a moment to realize that the Almighty has reached out and touched his hand, grasping it gently and placing it on the soft inside of his wrist. He can feel the faintest of pulses there, like a human heartbeat, and the faintest wings of hope begin to beat anew in Credence’s chest, for what use has the Almighty or the Devil for a heartbeat?

Credence looks up and straight into Newt Scamander’s solemn face.

“It’s just me, Credence,” Mr. Scamander says quietly. “Just fellow human and certainly mortal old me. I am not God or the Devil.”

“How?” Credence croaks. He closes his fingers reflexively around Mr. Scamander’s wrist, taking comfort in the heartbeat that thrums beneath his hand. “How could you save me? No – no, _why_ would you save me? I was a monster.”

Mr. Scamander smiles. It is not the wide, sly grin Mr. Graves had first flashed his way, or the prim and shallow smile Ma had used, or even the soft, sad smile Tina had worn every time they had spoken. It is just a smile, simple and plain, without ulterior motive or enormous emotion or anything else. 

“Because,” Mr. Scamander says, “you are human too, Credence. Did your God not mandate that we were to take care of our fellow humans?”

“The Bible forbids us from killing another human.”

“Perhaps. But it also forbids us from harming our fellow humans for sport or jealously,” Mr. Scamander points out. “The Obscurus is just . . . a part of you, Credence. It is not all of what makes you . . . well, you. In the end, you are a human being. I don’t need another reason to save you.”

A strange rumbling sensation rolls through Credence’s body. It takes him a minute to realize that it is hunger, gnawing and gnashing its teeth against his stomach, because Credence has always been hungry. His stomach has never quite growled so loudly though, because Ma had never had patience for loud rumbling during her sermons and Credence had long since learned how to accept his fate and be silent.

By contrast, the sound of hunger makes Mr. Scamander’s smile grow larger. He squeezes Credence’s hand once before releasing it. “And by the sounds of it, the next thing I should save you from is hunger,” he announces cheerfully. 

Mr. Scamander stretches out a hand, casually, carelessly, and flicks a few fingers. In the little copse where the shack is nestled, Credence can just make out a tree laden with fruit, and as he watches, the tree trembles ever so slightly before something bright red and small detaches from the tree and then flies at them at top speed. Mr. Scamander catches it with the ease of long practice, rubbing it briskly on his shirt, before he offers it to Credence.

It’s an apple.

And it must be magical, for Credence has never seen an apple quite so bright and shiny and red, but he is hungry. 

Something makes a hissing sound, and Credence looks up just as Mr. Scamander’s scarf moves, expanding and lifting one end and nudging insistently against the man’s cheek. Which is when he realizes quite suddenly that it is most certainly not a snake, but instead some kind of brilliantly colored snake, looped lazily about Mr. Scamander’s neck and now staring rather hungrily at the apple Mr. Scamander gave to Credence.

Mr. Scamander makes a tsking noise. “No, darling, that is not for you,” he says gently. “I can get you one of your own.” He pets it gently, cooing, and Credence is reminded of the pair of birds that had once nested in the church. The parent birds had cooed and nuzzled their young too, before Ma had decided it was a slight against God and had promptly removed the nest from the church altogether.

“Credence? Are you not hungry? If you don’t like apples, I can get a different food for you.”

“Thank you, Mr. Scamander,” he says. 

The man smiles and summons an apple of his own, slicing it in neat movements before he begins to eat one chunk and proffer another to the gleaming snake. “Call me Newt.”

Credence looks at the apple, so shiny and bright, and at the iridescent, hissing snake around Mr. Scamander’s – Newt’s – neck, and at the open expanse of the Garden of Eden around him. He thinks of Adam and Eve and the Tree of Knowledge. He thinks about magic and the Almighty. 

He thinks of Newt’s kindness, how he had talked so kindly to him, how he had sang to him, how he had summoned Credence the softest of blankets to sleep in. 

Credence eats the apple. What is one more sin, in the end?

**And God said, Let there be lights in the firmament of the heaven to divide the day from the night; and let them be for signs, and for seasons, and for days, and years.**

When handing out pamphlets had been the key to the scarce amount of food Credence was allotted, he would often use the passage of the sun and moon and stars to mark the countdown until he would find out if he would be eating or not. Ma had always been very firm that those who did not manage to pass out all of their flyers by sunset would not eat, for God only rewarded the industrious.

Credence has many, many memories of cold nights watching the moon crawl across the sky, shivering and silent and knowing that returning with any pamphlets still in hand would result in a second beating to match the first for being late. He had dreaded the sunset and the moonrise.

It is different, in Newt’s world. Perhaps this is not surprising, since Newt himself is so different, but nowadays Credence is quite content to watch the passage of the sun and the moon and the stars overhead. He is still far too weak to move very far, so Newt conjures him a nest of branches and warm fur and soft feathers and lets him rest. He has no schedule – no beatings to endure, no pamphlets to pass out, no sermons to attend – and he finds himself lazing about in a way that would have Ma screeching about the slovenly nature of wizards. 

Credence does not care anymore. He lies back in his nest, cradled in the branches of a snug tree, and watches the moon dance across the sky and is filled with wonderment at it. 

“Is it real?” he asks, one day when he finally musters the courage.

Newt pauses from where he’s thwacking a thick slab of meat with a knife. When Credence had first seen the blade, he had shied from it, thinking it like a scythe from the angel of death, but Newt had only ever used it to cut up meat to feed the baby carnivores in the case, and so nowadays the steady stumping of blade on meat is a rhythm that is more likely to lull Credence to sleep than make him awaken with alarm.

He’s still wearing a wrinkled white shirt, but this time his shirt sleeves are rolled up in deference to the heat. He has no winding, shimmering snake round his neck, but Credence still finds himself watching Newt’s throat when the man speaks.

“The stars?” Newt glances overhead and smiles faintly. “There are spells to make ceilings translucent, but I didn’t use those for my case. Too risky, especially since my case is mobile and most of those spells are cast on buildings that will never move, short of an earthquake or something. I just cast spells to mimic the heavens. See, the North Star there? If we were outside, you could still see it if you looked in that direction, but mine is just an imitation for my creatures.”

Newt says “creatures” the same way Ma used to say “prayers”. It’s divine and worshipping and loving, all at once. 

It makes Credence feel a little less silly, at least, for thinking Newt to be the Almighty. After all, the Almighty made the stars and the sun and moon to light up the heavens for His creations, and Newt has done the same here. He cares for these creatures the same way the Father is said to care about the earth, except that Newt never would send a flood or plagues. 

Credence props his head on the edge of his pillow. “Tell me a story?”

“Hmm,” Newt says, resuming his methodical whacking of the meat on his table. “Have I ever told you about the time I . . .”

Credence enjoys Newt’s stories. He has heard a thousand stories from Ma, but those were different. Those were lessons and warnings all at once. Newt’s stories sometimes contain lessons, but they are the fun kind and Newt never expects him to remember every single detail and recite it back to him. 

All Credence has to do is listen and watch the moon traverse the sky above. And if he falls asleep, Newt just smiles and carries on and will tell him again later.

Ma had likened the creation of the Earth to a story. The greatest story ever told, she had said, through the power and love of God Almighty. To call any other story great enough to rival the story of creation had been blasphemy, according to her. 

Looking around at Newt’s case, Credence thinks, perhaps, that in Newt’s world he has found a story told with magic and love and power that is even more compelling than the story of the first creation, for here Newt has created a world for everyone, magical or non-magical. It is blasphemy, but Credence looks at the blazing sun and glowing moon and glittering stars and wonders how anything so beautiful could be blasphemy. 

_They are not meant to be beautiful,_ Ma would say. _They are meant to light our way on the path to truth, a token of our Father’s goodwill and love._

Newt’s heavens do light up the world, fuelled by Newt’s sheer goodness and love. But they are more than a tool; they are beautiful and the creatures enjoy them and Credence could watch them dance for a thousand years and be content.

If he was braver, Credence thinks he would tell Ma _The work of our Father need not be functional to be beautiful_ and take the beating for blasphemy that would result.

God would strike Credence down, would burn his soul out and obliterate his body and deliver him to the demons of Hell for his sins. There would be no forgiveness, no mercy, and no hesitation. But Newt – Newt had found him and sang to him and clothed him and sheltered him and given him apples and water and bread. 

In truth, in his quieter moments, Credence cannot help but think the greatest blasphemy of all: that Newt would be a better God than the Almighty.

After all, between God and Newt, Credence knows to whose stars and sun and moon he would rather gaze up at.

**And God said, Let the waters bring forth abundantly the moving creature that hath life, and fowl that may fly above the earth in the open firmament of heaven.**

Credence is not sure how much time passes, only that it does. Every day, he wakes to find the sun rising and Newt either cheerfully feeding the creatures or asleep in various positions on the ground because he’s stayed up too late feeding his creatures, then he watches as Newt reads to him or draws some illustrations or prepares new experiments, then they eat, and then Credence goes to sleep and the cycle repeats. If not for the fact that Credence is getting stronger and stronger with each passing day, he might think that this was the last day before the end, and Credence had been blessed with the privilege of repeating it over and over again.

On the day Credence can finally walk without stumbling or fainting alongside Newt throughout the feeding cycle, Newt smiles and says, “I think it’s time for you to see the sea, Credence. Would you like that?”

Credence has heard of the sea. He has heard how once it grew so large it swallowed the entire world but for one boat and one family of each creature on Earth. He has heard how it has been home to pirates and thieves and murderers, but also how it once gave birth to the greatest disciples of the Lord’s son. He has heard a thousand and one stories, but never actually seen it, and so instead of cheering up, he says instead, “What sea?”

Newt gives him a secret smile. It isn’t like Ma’s smiles, which were either forced and shallow or full of religious pride as she set her belt against his skin. It’s just a smile that makes his eyes crinkle and his cheeks dimple, and Credence flushes as the mere sight of it.

The thought of Newt smiling at _him_ is almost beyond comprehension.

Newt touches his shoulder, a simple clasp of fingers to his shirt, but the warmth Newt radiates is truly miraculous. It is more than physical warmth of another body that has no intention of harming him being so close either; it is the warmth of Newt’s presence, of his easy smile and his gentle touch and his willingness to tell stories. Credence wants to lean against Newt and trade the ice-cold center of his monster for the sunshine Newt radiates.

“You have seen my forests and my mountains,” Newt points out. “What makes the sea so different?”

Credence works at his lip. It’s difficult to put into words, especially when Newt makes it sound so reasonable. For someone who can wave a hand and conjure a blanket from thin air, what makes the sea much different? “The sea is vast,” Credence murmurs finally. “One time it swallowed the earth whole at our Father’s command.”

Newt laughs, as he usually does when Credence recites anything from the Bible. “Oh, Credence,” he says, eyes glittering with mirth, “I promise to never flood my suitcase.”

* * *

Newt’s sea, as it were, is filled to the brim with creatures, much the same as his forests and mountains and plains. Credence really should not be surprised, since Newt is incapable of leaving any suffering creatures alone, but it still makes him stop in his tracks and gape like a mindless idiot when they cross the final ridge to the sea.

Newt, of course, just wades forward, and the waters part naturally around him with a wave of his wand. He only stays in the shallows at first, alternately cooing at and petting and feeding characters, and he gestures for Credence to join him.

Credence, who remembers vividly the story of Moses parting the Red Sea with another stick of wood, follows the call.

Newt tells him the name of each and every creature. Credence does not pet them and they avoid him, unlike how they swarm Newt, but that’s okay; he is still too frozen by wonder to actually reach out and make contact. The creatures float and shimmer and flicker and dance and squeal and croak, and Credence feels alive in the chaos, like he is in the Garden of Eden and all of the creatures of the world have woken up to find him there. He and Newt are the only two humans here, but he does feel alone; he feels blessed and privileged.

When Newt wades back out to grab a bucket with more food, Credence risks sitting down. The waves lap gently at his waist and the breezes ruffles his slowly lengthening hair, and it is so _warm_. It is hard to reconcile that with the fact that once he stood before Newt and a dozen men and women and thought he’d never be warm again, that his ice-cold monster would swallow him whole.

The waters are so calming that Credence only flinches a little bit when something smooth and slimy bumps into his leg.

He opens his eyes to find one of the strangest creatures he’s ever seen coiled a few inches from him. At first glance, it merely looks like a green-blue snake, but for the fact that the head alone is thicker than both of Credence’s arms and the jaw is filled with needle-sharp looking teeth and it has long, sinuous legs that end in flippers in the back and paws in the front. Half of it is coiled up into a pillow for the head, while the tail is lazily nudging Credence’s thigh, as if to say, _what kind of creature are you?_

Credence holds his breath and goes still, even though for once he feels more wonder than fear.

“Ah, that’s Giselle,” Newt calls cheerfully from behind him, a clanking sound emanating which each step. “She’s an ogopogo, I rescued her from a fisherman. Don’t worry, she’s quite friendly.”

The downside of this is that Newt says this about every single one of his creatures, even the ones that snapped at Credence when they first saw him. Giselle doesn’t look remarkably angry or dangerous, but she’s long enough that she could certainly squeeze the life from him as her jaw severs his head, so he still doesn’t move.

“She’s a vegetarian,” Newt continues. “So you can move, Credence. Just don’t, ah, reach directly for her head, that kind of behavior is threatening to her.”

Giselle’s enormous mouth opens, but all that lolls out is a strange, forked tongue. When Newt wades in with his bucket, her entire body uncoils, as if in anticipation, and it pays off when Newt finally reaches Credence, thunks the bucket down, and reaches in to start picking up and tossing some strangely vibrant orange moss than turns bright purple when it comes into the water. Giselle reacts like it’s the first food she’s ever seen; she darts forward, faster than the eye can see, and wriggles in circles as she chews down the purple moss. 

Newt offers him a handful of the moss. “Go on, then, give it a try. She loves food. And she needs the medicine inside, because she was separated from her family and quite injured when I found her.”

It’s like Newt knows exactly what Credence needed to hear. On his own, he would protest that he didn’t know what he was doing and might hurt her – or his monster might hurt the food – but the moss remains the strange orange color when it comes into contact with him, and Giselle looks so joyful at the food. And Credence, who had fallen onto the first sandwich Newt had ever given him with similar abandon, completely understands.

So Credence squares his shoulders, takes comfort at the steady presence of Newt at his side, and tosses Giselle the moss.

Giselle seizes it and downs it in one gulp, wriggling in happiness.

Newt rests his hand on Credence’s shoulder. “See? Not so difficult, is it? Although it might become so soon; Giselle is very small for her age. They’re like dragons, ogopogos. If they have enough food and space, they just never stop growing. Soon I’ll have to find someplace safe for her or charm this place bigger.”

“How was she caught?” Credence asks, watching how swiftly she curls and undulates in the water. She’s not as frantic now, but the bucket is also empty, so Credence wonders if she is full now, or nearly so. Still, he certainly would never be able to catch her.

“The fisherman charmed the net. He made it look like a fellow pod, and once she got close enough, she couldn’t get away.” Newt sighs and scratches at his neck. Credence has long learned the tones of his speech vary when he speaks of poachers and trappers, and they fall somewhere between angry and resigned. He sounds resigned here, so Newt must have caught the poacher and done . . . something. “The teeth of ogopogos are highly valuable because if you crush them, they can absorb a lot of magic without losing form or exploding. They’re often sought after to clean up crime scenes and absorb curses.”

Credence looks at Giselle. She must be at least twelve feet long, and every inch of her is gorgeous and shimmering in the sun. “They would kill her for her teeth alone?”

“Just her teeth,” Newt confirms. “Oh, certainly, their eyes aren’t useless and their skins are pretty, but most trappers don’t take the time to extract all of that. Mostly they just leave the corpses and take the teeth.”

“That’s . . .” Credence stops and takes a breath, tries to start again, and fails. He cannot comprehend being so _wasteful_ , when they used to reheat weeks old soup and gruel again and again, adding leftover scraps of bread or vegetables to make it feed just one more person, to last one more meal. Not that he’d want to eat Giselle, but to kill her just the handful of teeth lining her jaw seems unbearably cruel. 

Thankfully, Newt does not take offense to his strained silence. He squeezes Credence’s shoulder and says, “I agree. It’s utterly silly. Not to mention that ogopogos shed their teeth every once in a while, as the teeth get damaged or as they outgrow them. There’s no need for death. If you scour the lake of any ogopogo, there’ll be dozens of teeth on the floor.”

As if the waters themselves are on Newt’s side, the next wave rolls through and the sand whips up, revealing one glinting tooth by Credence’s toes. He’s just reaching down to pick it up when he hears the smallest little hiss and looks up straight into Giselle’s gleaming eyes.

Credence gulps.

“Hold the eye contact,” Newt advises, sounding completely calm. “To them, breaking eye contact is as good as declaring intent to attack.”

Credence had once knelt for six hours in the darkened church, praying an endless stream of Hail Mary and Our Father. Every time he had started to doze, even a little bit, Ma had added another lash of the belt to his punishment once the six hours were over.

Compared to that, maintaining eye contact with an ogopogo isn’t quite so difficult.

Giselle finally blinks an eon later, and her forked tongue flicks out to touch the back of Credence’s hand. It’s cold and slimy and strange, but Credence turns into a black flickering cloud of darkness and death, so he probably shouldn’t be judging her.

Newt makes a soft sound. “She likes you. Normally she just turns and goes back to her nest.”

“She doesn’t like you?” 

Newt shrugs. “Well, I did have to feed her some very unappetizing medicines at first, and scrub her from head to toe. I don’t think she’s quite forgiven me yet.”

Credence blinks at him, leaving his hand forgotten and hovering in the waves. He can’t imagine someone _not_ liking Newt. Newt is kind and gentle and he made an entire world for creatures so that they could heal. He can’t imagine anyone who is better than Newt. 

Fortunately, it is because Credence is still looking at Newt that he sees the exact moment Newt’s eyes go wide just before an enormous _splash_ soaks Newt from head to toe.

Newt splutters.

Giselle, who is coiling in the distance, wriggles in happiness and then swims off, apparently content.

“Every. Single. Time,” Newt mutters, although he sounds so fond that Credence relaxes instead of tensing, because even if Newt shucks his drenched white shirt with economical, sharp movements, it is nowhere near the sharp movements of Ma getting annoyed and reaching for his belt. Newt sounds rather more like some of the mothers Credence sees on the street, tugging their daughters and sons along and saying, gently and fondly, _Come along, dears, come along_.

And then Credence is not thinking about Ma at all, because Newt is, well.

Newt is _fit_.

Credence has seen Newt do some fairly impressive things. He coaxed Credence back into human form, after all. He can name every single creature in his case with half a second’s glance, even though Credence can’t tell the difference between one mooncalf and the next. And Credence once saw him lugging around an entire enormous wheelbarrow of wood for one of his creatures, forearms tense and gleaming with sweat, so Credence knew he was strong, but knowing is quite different from seeing. 

Newt’s chest is defined and smooth, marred only by the countless scars and scratches that must come from handling volatile creatures. When he bends over to grab the bucket again, the line of his powerful arm makes Credence tremble all over, and not from fear.

Newt would never hurt him, he knows, and not just because it would be a waste of his time to destroy what he’d so carefully saved.

He wonders, briefly, what it might feel like, to rest his head against that chest and feel that arm around his shoulders, to close his eyes and be held and know without a doubt that he was safe, that he was cared for, that he was understood. He wonders if that is what people call love. 

“Credence? Are you quite alright?”

Credence nods in answer, because he can’t trust his voice to survive. Thankfully, Newt searches his face and seems satisfied with whatever he sees there; he just nods and strokes Credence’s shoulder before he trundles off to the next section of the sea, leaving Credence feeling warm all over as he sits in the waters.

Ma had always said homosexuality was a sin. Credence wonders if that sin is more or less than being attracted to a God when one is a magic-wielding black cloud monster.

**And God said, Let us make man in our image, after our likeness: and let them have dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the fowl of the air, and over the cattle, and over all the earth, and over every creeping thing that creepeth upon the earth.**

Newt sat near Credence and sang to him for days on end until Credence was strong enough to find his humanity again, so perhaps it is not so surprising that when the trio of santelmos that he houses in fireproof fields and swamps comes down with some sort of magical illness after clashing with the chimeras, Newt works himself to the bone.

Credence does what he can. He’s quite well versed in the feeding ritual by now, especially for the sea habitats, and he’s a little slower since he’s not quite as strong as Newt but the creatures don’t mind as long as he gets everything out to them. He even works up to touching a few of them, and they respond quite positively to him and he actually gets delayed further as they coil or lick or rub against him.

Newt consults his notes and goes through a series of trials for a cure. His first cure singes off his eyebrows but doesn’t have any effect on the now alternatively sparking santelmos. His second attempt makes them go whizzing about the enclosure banging into everything and anything. His third attempt, born of a twenty-four hour marathon – or, at least, Credence sees the sun rise and set and rise again before Newt emerges triumphant – cures two of the trio but not the third.

After that, Newt gently but firmly corrals the sick one and takes it into its own special enclosure, warding it against fire and contamination and apologizing all the while. 

“Santelmos do not like being alone,” Newt explains absently. “The swamps and fields they call home are often filled with dozens of their kin, and even then, they get lonely and bored enough to coax in travelers to play with. But if I don’t separate him, then the others will contract the illness again and it’s much worse the second time around.”

Credence says, “Well . . . you know what is best for them.”

“Know, yes. It still makes me feel awful.” Newt makes a cooing noise at the sulking santelmo, which has resorted to glowing bright blue instead of the standard brilliant orange-yellow. Credence has learned that bright blue fire burns hotter and therefore indicates an angry santelmo that should be handled with care. “I am sorry, love, but until you’re cured I will have to keep you here. Your family is just over there, though, look! You can still see them.”

The santelmo flashes yellow, like a lamp flickering on, and then goes whizzing to the opposite end of the enclosure.

Newt sighs. “And back to the drawing board we go.”

Although Credence is now blessed with Newt’s favor and has access to as much food as he could ever want whenever he wants it, his stomach still remembers the days and weeks he went with the bare minimum, if he had any food at all. This is why he can see the signs of the collapse before they happen, and so he only needs to slide one foot to the side to be the perfect position to catch Newt when the man stumbles.

“No,” Credence says sternly. “You need sleep. Lots of sleep. And food.”

“But my creatures – ”

“I will take care of them,” Credence tells him. “But if you do not rest, then you will not be able to accomplish anything on your . . . drawing board.”

He manages to heave a faintly protesting Newt into his bed in the shack after a lengthy walk back wherein he alternately shoots down Newt’s attempts at bargaining and just flat out ignores Newt’s escape attempts. Newt collapses on the bed and falls asleep in the amount of time it takes Credence to turn around and switch the kettle on, so Credence feels entirely justified in his endeavors.

Of course, that victory is tinged with worry. Newt is the strongest person Credence knows, and Newt had felt more like fabric floating in the breeze than the man who built Credence a nest with his bare hands.

Still, Credence had once been smoke and darkness and dust, and Newt had coaxed him back to full strength with tea, food, and sleep, so Credence vows to continue that regimen until his savior is back on his feet. He boils the tea, adds the same restorative herbs Newt gave him, and leaves the tea and some food on the enchanted warming plate for Newt to eat when he wakes up. Then he brushes off his hands and sets off to partake in the daily feeding ritual.

The ritual always begins with the creatures of the sea, since they are usually the easiest to find and distribute food too. Credence hands out moss and pellets and spelled light balls, he tucks bottles against the mouths of the babies, and he plays a big of tag with the floating aquarium balls. 

They’re unusually behaved, actually, and when Giselle comes slinking up and wraps herself twice around his torso, he sighs and pets her.

“Newt will be fine,” Credence says, just as much to her as to himself. “He will be.”

Giselle licks him and slides off.

The next step is to coax the various flying creatures of the sky down. Normally, Newt would either toss up or levitate food with magic, but Credence hasn’t touched magic since the last time he turned into a monster. So he just whistles as best he can and shakes the food buckets, and hunger and the sounds eventually draw them all down to him. They too are unusually behaved, quiet and gentle when they’re normally loud and pushy, and more than a few groom Credence’s hair. He takes the comfort that is offered and sneaks a few extra treats, just because he can. 

_No one will ever go hungry in my case,_ Newt had said, and Credence had taken it as one of his Commandments.

The final part of the feeding ritual involves all the land creatures. Credence hands out meat, flings handfuls of pellets, scatters lice and wood chips and tiny, glittering marbles, and by the time he reaches the enclosure for the santelmos he is quite exhausted. The feeding ritual has been a great way for Credence to build up his strength and endurance, but Newt always helps him and he’s never done it all by himself. Still, the exhaustion is invigorating, like the feel of good work done well, the way his Ma had said handing out pamphlets should feel. 

The sick santelmos is still flickering a sulky blue and yellow when Credence comes up to it. It brightens a little, but when Credence only shakes his head and tosses the little branches of fire that it likes, it bangs against the enclosure and spits fire.

“I can’t let you out,” Credence explains gently. “You’re still sick.”

The santelmos spits fire one more time and then soars off to bang into the other edge of the enclosure.

Anyone else might have seen it as cruelty, to separate a creature used to living in close quarters with kith and kin from their family. Credence might have called it cruel too, just the same way he would call what humans tended to do to those they were given dominion over cruel, but Newt is kind. Not for the first time, Credence thinks that perhaps Newt is more like God than God is, for he tends his creatures with patience and kindness without abusing the power that he has over them, even when they misbehave and grow ill and sin.

After all, Credence certainly sometimes wishes that he was made in the image of Newt, the man who had stood before an angry crowd to beg mercy, the man who had put blood and sweat and tears into shielding those who needed protecting, the man who had sat by a monster of death and destruction and sang to him. 

He can only hope that one day he will be as kind and strong and patient as Newt is.

* * *

Newt is stronger than Credence, so it only takes two days of constant sleep, interspersed with food and water, for Newt to be back on his feet. Credence returns from playing with Giselle to find Newt a blur of motion around his workbench, adding various ingredients to a potion.

“You’re awake,” Credence says.

Newt points his wand at a cabinet and sends three more ingredients in. “Very observant,” he says, grinning. “I feel much better, thank you very much. And thank you for feeding and playing with my creatures.”

Credence shrugs. It is no hardship to play with the friendly creatures, and if Credence just sat around all day and didn’t feed them he would probably have gone mad from boredom. His Ma always ensured that they were doing something, otherwise there would be no need to feed them, in her eyes. “You saved my life. It was the least I could do.”

He’s not sure what about that statement makes Newt unhappy, but Newt stops mid-motion and comes over to him, frowning ever so slightly.

“I didn’t save you,” Newt says, his eyes intense as he looks at Credence. “You saved yourself.”

“It was the least I could do,” Credence repeats.

Newt grasps him firmly by the shoulders and draws him close, and Credence doesn’t flinch – Newt would _never_ hurt him – but he does shy away, so that it takes him a long moment to realize that Newt just wants to hug him. And then, of course, he can’t think of anything else, because he is resting his head on that strong chest with those powerful arms around him, and he flails a little bit before he ends up resting his hands very lightly on Newt’s back.

Newt strokes his back, a long smooth movement like he strokes the big cat-like creatures that roam the plains. “It was more than that,” Newt murmurs. “You fed all of my creatures and cared for them and made sure they were happy. It was . . . It was a lot, Credence. Thank you.”

Credence hides his face in Newt’s chest. Good manners would have him say “You’re welcome” but in this case, Credence does not think thanks are warranted.

But he won’t turn down a hug, especially from Newt. It is very nice. He understands why he always used to see children on the street with their arms extended, begging for a hug from their mothers and fathers.

Instead, he says, “Thank _you_. For everything.”

Newt just hugs him harder.

**And on the seventh day God ended his work which he had made; and he rested on the seventh day from all his work which he had made.**

“You are absolutely _crazy_ ,” Credence blurts out, and then he claps his hands over his mouth because his Ma would beat him bloody for saying such a thing.

Newt just laughs.

He also continues holding out a wand to Credence, like he wasn’t there the last time Credence used magic and destroyed half of New York City. Credence doesn’t even remember destroying half of the city, since his monster was so consumed by rage.

“The Obscurus inside of you is made of pure magic,” Newt repeats, even though Credence had rolled his eyes when Newt had said it beforehand. “It will continue making attempts to escape if you cannot learn to control it or give it a useful outlet. I can teach you small spells so that you can learn to master the Obscurus. You’ve wanted to be able to levitate some of the feed to our creatures like I do, yes?”

“Your creatures.”

“They belong to us now,” Newt says, and this time he puts the wand straight in Credence’s hand. It is warm, just like Newt himself. “Come on, Credence, just one spell.”

_Just one step,_ Newt had said, coaxing Credence into his suitcase.

_Just one creature,_ Newt had said, coaxing Credence into seeing his world.

_Just one spell,_ Newt asks, and Credence cannot deny him.

“Okay,” Credence breathes, and he tightens his hand around the wand. “Okay. Just . . . just one spell.”

The spell is, in principle, rather simple. Credence is supposed to give the wand a smooth swish and a little flick, all whilst saying “wingardium leviosa” so that he lift some of the pellets that Newt uses to feed the mooncalves. 

At first, though, nothing actually happens. He waves the wand and concentrates and even closes his eyes and imagines the pellets flying, and the pellets just sit there, almost like they’re mocking him. Newt kindly tells him that using a wand is far more difficult than just making something happen with pure magic, because you have to channel it through an instrument with a specific purpose and utilizing specific words, and therefore it takes time and practice to make it work. Then Newt claps him on the shoulder and trundles off whistling, and so Credence – if only for him – keeps trying.

Out of the corner of his eye, Credence watches as Newt greets his nest of occamys, cooing and petting. He thinks of Newt’s smile, so brilliant that it could power the entire world, of Newt’s kindness, so all-encompassing that no creature is exempt from it, of Newt’s strength, so comforting and steady – 

“Credence!”

Startled, Credence drops the wand, but it doesn’t matter, because _all_ of the pellets are floating the air, glimmering and glowing like a thousand stars in the sky.

“I knew you could do it,” Newt exclaims, sounding as proud as he did when Credence took his first trembling steps out of the nest after returning to human form. He walks back over to Credence, gliding smoothly through the glowing pellets like a shooting star, and when he comes to rest next to Credence, Credence is taken aback by the sheer joy on his face.

“I don’t know how to put these back,” Credence admits. He doesn’t know how Newt can take joy in Credence causing such a mess.

Newt shrugs. “There’s a spell for that too. I – Credence?”

Credence hugs his arms tightly to his stomach. He can already feel the tell-tale signs of his monster emerging from his chest, turning his eyes white as snow and blurring the edges of his human body into darkness and smoke. He doesn’t want the monster to come out here – he loves these creatures, he loves this world, and he loves Newt – but he doesn’t know if he can stop it. The monster is _hungry_ to come out, after being trapped so long in Credence’s body and just now getting a taste of the outside.

When Newt tries to touch him, Credence says, “Don’t!”

But Newt – lovely, kind, strong Newt – just reaches out and grasps his shoulders anyways, face the same compassionate mask as always. “Credence, you are in control, not the Obscurus. Listen to my voice. Breathe.”

“I – I can’t – I can’t, it’s coming out – please, Newt, I don’t want to hurt you – ”

“And you won’t,” Newt says, each word like a commandment from God. “You won’t, Credence. I have faith in you.”

“Please, get away from me,” Credence begs, even as he begins to shake. He can already see the tendrils of dust curling up from his legs and fingers, and he’s starting to lift from the ground. The Obscurus is eating him up, piece by piece, and he cannot stop it. 

“You won’t hurt me, Credence,” Newt repeats. “I have faith in you.”

“ _Why?_ ”

Newt leans forward and kisses his forehead, and Credence freezes. The kiss is soft and gentle, hardly a brush of Newt’s lips over his skin, but it feels like a kiss from the Almighty, giving life and hope and warmth that spills into Credence’s belly and settles his shaking limbs from smoke and darkness to flesh and blood.

“Because you are a miracle, Credence,” Newt murmurs, breath warm against Credence’s forehead, “and everything you do is extraordinary. How could I not have faith in someone whose every breath is miraculous?”

The last of the smoke recedes. Credence’s knees thump into the ground again, wondrously if painfully human again, and he takes great heaving gasps of air as his lungs begin to work like normal human lungs again. Newt holds him all the while, breathing steadily against his head, and Credence closes his eyes and lets Newt’s worth drive away the ice-cold smoke of the monster that lingers within.

Newt squeezes his shoulders once more, and then says, “Let’s take a break, okay?”

With his help, Credence manages to hobble over to his nest, where he gratefully collapses in the pile of blankets and feathers and fur. From there, it’s only natural to twist and curl up as Newt climbs in as well, so that they are both resting. Silence falls, and it is a good silence. Credence imagines the Almighty once had experienced a similar silence, as he surveyed the world he had created and decided it was Good.

Still. There is something niggling at the back of Credence’s mind, and Newt has always said to ask anything he wants to, so Credence murmurs, “Newt?”

“Yes?”

He rolls over to face Newt, because Newt deserves eye contact. He deserves honesty. “Do you really think I’m a miracle?”

Newt’s eyes, when they finally meet Credence’s, look like they are a thousand years old. They are weary, like he has seen a million terrible things, but still full of hope and love and gentleness, and Credence already knows what Newt is going to say before he says it. He waits anyways, because some things must be said to be believed. 

Newt rests one warm hand on Credence’s cheek. “Yes,” he says softly. “You are a miracle.” 

“I’m just . . . me.”

He barely avoids saying “a monster”, mostly because Newt tends to get flinty whenever Credence refers to himself as such. The pause seems to have given him away, though, because Newt brings their faces closer together, eyes still so weary, and strokes his thumb gently against Credence’s cheek.

“You are not a monster,” Newt tells him. “You are a wizard. You are a human. You are a miracle, Credence, and I am blessed to have known you.”

“I think that’s my line,” Credence whispers, and then it feels only natural to bring their faces even closer together for their first kiss.

Newt makes a startled sound when he does so, but within half a second he is kissing back, his thumb still stroking Credence’s cheek and his other hand resting on Credence’s neck, and Credence lets himself grow dazed and drowsy as they kiss and kiss and kiss some more under the setting sun and rising stars. _I could spend the rest of eternity doing this_ , Credence thinks, and perhaps this is why God cast Adam and Eve from the Garden, why he sent fire and brimstone down upon Sodom and Gomorrah, why he had His son emerge into the world from a virgin mother – otherwise, without that, humanity might be lost forever in the mysterious power of love that occurs between one soul and another.

Credence already knows he is lost, after all.

Newt looks equally dazed and lost when they finally part for air, lips swollen and chests heaving and fingers tracing mindless patterns across the other’s skin. “No, it is my line. You are my miracle, Credence,” he says, solemn and loving. “I would not trade you for all the world.”

“Nor I you.” Credence has only been part of Newt’s world for a handful of months, but he can’t imagine leaving it. Perhaps someone else might be annoyed or furious at being trapped. Credence feels only relief, for in here, he can live out his days happy and healthy and loved, and no one can be hurt by him. “But . . . why me?”

“Because you are strong,” Newt answers, ruffling his curls. “Because you are kind. Because you are sweet and gentle and hard-working. Because you have been hurt and burned but you would never harm a living creature. You took all that rage and hurt, my miracle, and you made yourself determined to never let anyone else feel that pain. You let your magic eat you up from the inside rather than take one step against the person who hurt you. You begged me to kill you so that you would not hurt me or anyone else. Do you know how rare that selflessness, that kindness, that strength of character is?”

“No,” Credence says. “Because I have seen all of it in you.”

Newt’s face crinkles into a wide smile. “Well, then, Credence Barebone,” he says, “perhaps we deserve each other.”

“Good,” Credence breathes. “After all, you are _my_ miracle, Newt Scamander.”

And then they say no more words, for there are no more to say, and instead Credence curls into Newt’s powerful arms and lays his head against his chest and stares into the beautiful glowing stars that Newt has made above, and he rests, because he is safe and happy and loved, and he knows he will be so until the end of his days. All he has to do is make sure that Newt is equally safe and happy and loved, and he is quite content to spend the rest of his days ensuring exactly that.

**And the Lord God said, Behold, the man is become as one of us, to know good and evil.**

“Are you certain about this?” Newt asks. His suitcase is bound securely with rope and sealed with magic, but the only concern in his face is for Credence.

Credence nods, trying to contain the way his heart swells with love, as it always does. He fails, of course, but that’s okay, because Newt steps in close and brushes their hands together, and it gives Credence the strength to walk forward into the doors of the Magical Congress of the United States of America.

Credence Barebone would have hunched his shoulders and averted his eyes and shuffled his feet, because he would have felt like Lucifer being dragged into Heaven, returning with blackened wings that could tell all of his fall into darkness and shadow and wickedness. 

Credence Scamander walks with his head held high and his shoulders back and his steps sure and steady, because with Newt at his side, he just feels like himself.

That being said, he still startles a little bit when the secretary finally lets them in and he looks up to see the face of Percival Graves, Director of Magical Security and Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, staring back at him, looking rather like someone has slapped him in the face with a wet, smelly bucket.

Credence would know; Giselle has done that to both of them when they got distracted and started kissing instead of feeding her.

“You,” Director Graves says faintly.

“Yes, me,” Newt replies, cheerful as ever as he sets his case down and takes a seat.

Director Graves blinks and then flicks a hand. The door slides shut behind them and the edges glow very faintly, and Credence can feel the telltale hum of wards activating. He would be nervous, except that he has a wand and a passport that declares him a British citizen and a proper wizard, so he just follows Newt’s lead and sits down.

“Well, yes, you too, Mr. Scamander.” Director Graves looks at the case, frowning. “Please tell me that thing is restrained.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Hmm. And actually, I meant you, Mr. Barebone. I think it’s safe to say that I did not expect to see Credence Barebone in my office.”

Credence barely holds back a flinch. Theseus Scamander had said almost the exact same thing in the exact same tone when Newt had first brought him to the Scamander home, and he had fingered a wand while doing so. But he has been Credence Scamander for so long that the Barebone name is almost shocking to hear again.

“I – I’m Credence Scamander now.”

Director Graves leans back in his chair. He looks every inch the incredibly powerful wizard that Mr. Grindelwald had told Credence he was, confident and calm and steady, like a nundu on the prowl. But there are subtle differences too – his hair is starting to fall a little out of its style, his scarf is crumpled on the edge of his seat, and his shirt is faintly wrinkled. He’s still quite an imposing figure, but he’s just softer, around the edges. More human. 

Credence had expected to look into the face of the real Director Graves and see him as the soldier he was, like Michael the archangel, the most powerful and dutiful of all the angels, the first to emerge from Creation, he who had cast down Lucifer at God’s command.

Instead, Credence just sees . . . a man. Powerful, to be sure, but no more angelic than Credence himself. 

“Are you now,” Director Graves is saying when Credence refocuses. “That explains a lot. What about the Obscurus?”

Credence has made his peace with his monster. They are part of each other, and now that they have accepted it, it’s easy for Credence to breathe deeply and let the Obscurus emerge from the depths of his soul. He looks up and knows that his eyes have gone white from the way Director Graves flinches back.

Then Newt reaches over and clasps his hand, and the Obscurus – which loves Newt as much as Credence does – purrs and recedes.

“It is part of me,” Credence says. “And I am part of it. You needn’t fear either of us.”

Director Graves sighs and rubs at his forehead. He looks thin, actually, thin and tired and worn out, like Credence had looked before Newt started feeding him up. He is struck by the urge to tuck Director Graves into a nest of his own, to ply him with tea and food and blankets, to let him rest and see the dark circles under his eyes fade. Director Graves is only human too, after all, and deserving of the same care as every human.

“Fine,” he sighs. “I don’t have any kind of precedent to handle you and Congress wouldn’t know what to do with you, so as long as you don’t let it out – fine, that’s just fine.”

“Thank you.”

There’s a moment of silence, and then Director Graves look at them with keen eyes. “You didn’t just come into the heart of MACUSA and to my office to announce your engagement, did you?”

“No.”

“Well, then out with it. I haven’t got all day.”

Credence looks at Newt, who smiles encouragingly. Newt had been the one to tell him that Director Graves was a good man, a strong man of principles and kindness. Partially, this had been due to stories Theseus had told them about the man he had served in the war with, but Newt had also helped rescue Director Graves and Newt, Credence knows firsthand, is a good judge of character. 

He looks at Director Graves, at his keen eyes and weary shoulders and the strong set of his jaw, and forges ahead. “We both know that there are other children like me,” Credence begins. “Children with magic who are abandoned, who are forgotten, who are lost. Children who might follow my path.”

“And?”

“And I want to help. I want to make sure it doesn’t happen again. To anyone.”

“It is a noble goal. I’m still not sure why you’re in my office telling me about it when you could be, I don’t know, campaigning in the streets,” Director Graves says dryly. “Your smoky friend would be a rather convincing argument, I would think.”

“Because we need your help,” Credence replies honestly. “And because I think you might need it too.”

This time, the flinch Director Graves makes is so incredibly small that Credence almost misses it. But he’s spent his entire life watching every single movement Ma ever made in case a beating was coming his way, so he does see it, and that’s how he knows he’s on the right path.

“You felt guilty,” Credence continues. “Even now that you know I’m alive – even back then, when it wasn’t your fault, you felt guilty, Director Graves. You shouldn’t, but you do. Look me in the face and tell me that helping us change the laws and save children like me would not help you get actual sleep at night.”

Director Graves taps his fingers on his desk. His face is thoughtful, quiet, blank. Credence doesn’t remember this face from when Mr. Grindelwald was occupying his body, but Newt is calm so Credence just breathes and watches.

Finally, Director Graves says, “Well, well. Credence Barebone, you’ve grown up.”

“I had to.”

“Yes, I know. And it’s our damn fault you had to.” He blows out a long breath, and Credence sees the way his shoulders ease, ever so slightly. It makes Credence smile, because if he accomplishes anything today, giving a good man the forgiveness he needs to carry on is as good a deed as any.

“All right,” Director Graves says, the words as sharp as a newly unsheathed blade given purpose again. “Where do we start?”

FINIS

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed it! I'm off to go write some more Fantastic Beasts for Gradence Trick or Treat. I am also on [tumblr](http://thesilverqueenlady.tumblr.com) if anyone's interesting in popping over to say hello to me and my multiple OTPs lol.


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